Wednesday, November 09, 2016


Something simple like fucking another
man’s wife. Like walking back to your house
for the first time after the floodwaters
have receded. Everything lost, and the
smell of decay. The heat of the
sun. Paperwork, yes, and then the
value of what’s been lost. A price,
like selling your daughter. A machine,
but too vast to ever be seen clearly
because you can never get far enough
away. Sweat, blood, fuel, all
of it running in thin perfect streams
down to the river until the river
catches fire. Nothing simple, because
she says she’s pregnant. She says she loves
you. A box filled with pictures of
your past, and all of them ruined. The
furniture beyond saving. Gears,
always grinding. Always chewing up
and spitting out. The blood of other
people’s children staining everything.

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